


primus

by mutantmeme



Category: The Philosophers (2013)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post Film, Queer Themes, Spoilers, references to violence, this film just gave me a lot of emotions okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutantmeme/pseuds/mutantmeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a philosophy classroom is hardly a closet</p>
            </blockquote>





	primus

Fear is contagious. The apprehension – held breaths and restless finger tapping – lingers like an ugly, cancerous spoor, spreading as existentialism among doubtful believers. It’s an inexplicable, biological urge to flee that drains fight from limbs and eyes.

A philosophy classroom is hardly a closet – and Jack isn’t scared. The prejudice of desperation furls against his veins and strangles the infinity in his synapses, but there’s blessed reassurance in regaining a voice to joke. Mob mentality doesn’t solely pierce the reclaimed slurs buzzing on his fingertips; Mr Zimit falters for fear of solidarity, not unconformity. Parker smiles haltingly and Jack grins back, teeth and all, lips curled to bare the blood of protests past.

Hours later, hands still shaking and neurotransmitters battered from hours of constant paranoia, Jack follows Parker back to his place. It’s a longer walk than the usual, but unique in its own Jakartan specialty – the energy burning out in Parker’s words illuminates street-venders’ shouts and the pattering of children’s footsteps as they scurry from their scolding mothers. The city glows, alive for the first time in months, unlike any alleyway in London – and Jack isn’t scared.

Parker’s apartment is simple, understated: unrecognisable from the bustle below. Jack finds lyrical disposition in it. Parker laughs, a slow chuckle, and Jack’s heart stutters the second time that day.

“Omosede gave me some the other day,” Parker says, placing a bowl of gelato beside Jack’s elbow. “Ironic?”

“You could say that,” Jack smirks. The gelato, however delicious it may be as it slips against his overworked tongue, tastes bitter when it smears over his gums. It’s all slick like a mean right hook, jaundice bruises blooming from a dairy-less good intention. Jack pushes the iced particles around until they’re a mess against the fine-boned china and Parker doesn’t say a word. Jack could really like this kid.

Speaking of, “How come you never said anything about… _you know_ – before?”

Parker nudges his untouched bowl towards the sink. “Never really relevant, I suppose,” he shrugs, shoulders loose. Without Mr Zimit’s squint scrutinising their fumbling indecision, Jack appreciates the kind lines creasing Parker’s syllables and every turn of his cadence. He paints a universe of non-binary emotion like Monet, so fear can Van Gogh fuck itself.

Saying as such aloud earns another gentle snort. Well, another point for ‘Reasons I Should Really, Really, _Really_ Ask Him Out (Not Like “Theoretical End Of The World, Let’s Fuck” Dating Or Anything)’, a short and lustful autobiography from a pretend Ph.D in Bullshitting a Vast Majority of the Semester With Loquacious, Deep Thoughts on Humanity’s Unbalanced Empathic Capacity. The implied capitalisation is giving him a wicked headache and Jack almost moans when Parker’s hands come to rest, muted, on his forearms. It almost feels like a prayer.

Fuck – it’s practically a sermon, all unapologetic phrases, vicarious through humility, bleeding colour onto the impassive bench-top and stainless appliances. It’s every shred of his vocal chords outside Westminster Abbey, all the rattled door-handles outside bedrooms from Glasgow to Sydney, it’s his father pleading for pacifism in the face of an endless stream of activism pamphlets. It’s Parker drifting closer like a hurricane to land, mouth hesitant on his, questions constructed of history’s bleached monologue and stardust breathed without reprimand – and Jack isn’t scared.


End file.
